


An Honourable Purpose

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team investigates. In a gay club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Honourable Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2006 [Martian Holiday](http://martianholiday.livejournal.com).

Sam would have never expected to be glad to see the test card girl.

But there he was, lying spread-eagled on the floor, the grimy carpet coarse against his cheek, his bare chest and shoulders, a hammering against the inside of his skull, his tongue swollen and his mouth full of dead mice. And there she was, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, the blond hair neatly parted, her ghastly clown pressed to her chest. Blinking away the dizziness from his eyes, he tried to focus on her, taking in the sight of her tilted head and twisted little smile. And he was glad she was there, because, if not the pleasantest of hallucinations, she was at least a familiar one.

"What do you want?" he grunted hoarsely. He tried to turn his head into a more comfortable position, but gave up as he felt his stiff neck muscles protest. His hand brushed against something cold and smooth; Sam realised it was an empty bottle, and the vague memory of it having been almost full when he had opened it last night crept back alarmingly.

"I want to help you, Sam," she said in that clear, young voice that grated on his nerves. "I'm your friend, you know. Friends are supposed to help each other."

He gave a short snort of laughter. "How do you want to help me?"

"By giving you good advice," she said, smartly. "You shouldn't pick up DCI Hunt's filthy habits. He has imprinted himself much too much on you. It's not healthy. It's unnatural."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"You and DCI Hunt are co-dependent."

"That's a big word for a-" Sam started and then stopped, realising that he had used that phrase in a conversation with her before. Also, something else was nagging at the back of his mind. Whom else did he know who would say something like that?

"Annie?" Sam frowned. "It's not you, Annie, is it?"

The girl met his gaze, shaking her head sadly.

"Alcohol is not good for you, Sam. It won't get you what you want."

"Oh, and you know so well what I want, do you?"

"Of course I do. I told you, I am your friend. Friends have no secret from each other." She tilted her head to the other side, pressing her clown closer to her chest. "Alcohol makes that you don't know what's real. And you want to know what's real, don't you, Sam?"

Sam's arm jerked up and he heard the satisfying crash as the empty bottle smashed to pieces on the opposite wall. There was little hope that it had managed to cause any damage to an know-it-all-ish hallucination, and he knew that he would have to pick up sharp glass shards from the carpet the next morning, and - let's face it, considering his current luck - miss a particularly long and pointy one and step on it one day - but it felt like a small triumph nevertheless.

His arm fell back onto the carpet, and he closed his eyes against the early-morning light that was pouring sluggishly into the room. He had to rest for just a few more minutes.

When he woke up again, the world was spinning. That was a sure sign that the hangover had kicked in already. If he was lucky, it would be in a bearable stage by the time he had to get up and get dressed.

The hammering inside his skull hadn't stopped yet, and Sam winced as he slowly rolled onto his side, and then braced himself on shaking arms. He couldn't remember the last time he had been that wasted. He could not remember whether there had ever _been_ a time that he had been so wasted.

The noise coming from the other side of the thin wall didn't help. Sam had the sneaking suspicion that his neighbours had taken to play their music particularly loud in reaction to the nightmare-induced screams that emanated from his room at night. It was a painfully cheery melody today, and the lyrics felt like a slap in the face. _"I never knew me a better time and I guess I never will / Oh Lawdy mama those Friday nights / when Suzie wore her dresses tight / and the Crocodile Rocking was out of sight…_

Sam groaned. Good times and Friday nights indeed. He hoisted himself into a standing position and made for the bathroom. He would go to the station early. There at least he could feel sick and miserable without an inappropriate soundtrack pounding in the background.

~*~

It wasn't that he hated Gene Hunt, Sam thought, later, clinging to the door handle, grim and determined. It was only that Hunt infuriated him so much, he wanted to whack him over the head with something heavy every other day. Unfortunately, it also applied vice versa, and Hunt was much better prepared for physical confrontations. Sam was getting seriously tired of it. Today, Hunt had run into Sam when they both turned the corner coming from opposite directions, and when Sam had uttered a sound of complaint, Hunt had rounded on him, grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and jerked him towards himself.

"There's been an armed robbery down at the canal," he said, shaking Sam slightly. "So stop acting like Miss Prissy, grab your handbag and hoof it, there's a good girl."

It was moments like that that made Sam regret he had not shot Gene Hunt when he had had the chance.

~*~

"Whoever they were, they did a good job," said Hunt, looking down at the three bodies lying in a pool of blood by his feet. "That bloke there, had his face shot right off."

"Shotguns?" Sam asked, crouching down to examine the bodies more closely. He looked up when he heard footsteps approach. "Have forensics been here yet?"

"Nah, Boss, they can't be here for another hour or so." Chris was chewing his gum furiously, trying to sound unconcerned, but Sam could see that the scene was getting to him. It was the stench of blood, he supposed. He was feeling strangely faint, too, but that might have been the lingering hangover.

"Just make sure no-one disturbs the scene of crime, Chris. Don't let them stamp around, change the position of the bodies and walk through the blood. We'll have to perform a blood-pattern analysis," he added pointedly. Beside him, he heard Hunt groan.

"While yer fooling around with patterns and blueprints, me and DS Carling 'ere are going to make an arrest," Hunt said, nodding at Ray. "Dun't get any blood on your apron, Gladys, yer know how hard it is to get the stains out."

Sam felt the familiar apprehension rise up from the pit of his stomach. "Whom are you going to arrest?"

Hunt looked towards the open door, his face set. "Them blokes."

"If yer can call them 'blokes'." Ray smirked, rather nastily.

Sam didn't bother trying to understand. Doubtlessly, Hunt had some cast-iron evidence, such as "I got a feeling in me water". He opened his mouth to argue, but Hunt merely shot him a warning look and strode out, with Ray trailing behind him. For a few moments, Sam was torn between wanting to stop his CID colleagues trampling all over the place and eventually having the bodies conveyed to the morgue before forensics have been through, and wanting to prevent Hunt and Ray rough up innocent bystanders, neighbours and possible witnesses. In the end, he decided to trust the team to follow standard procedure and followed the others out of the warehouse.

They hadn't gone far. Hunt was interviewing an elderly, harassed-looking man with bushy brows and a worried moustache, while Ray and Chris were openly staring at the chest of a pale, frightened girl who looked as though she tried to hide in the man's shadow. Sam's mouth twisted in disdain. The girl was barely sixteen or seventeen.

"… do wanna help the police. I just never seen nowt," the man was saying in a wispy little voice.

"Dun't gimme that shit," Hunt t said, taking a step closer and looming over the man. "Yer work 'ere. What did yer see?"

"I seen nowt!" the man repeated, this time with more force behind the words. The girl was trembling, reaching out to grab his hand. Sam had had enough.

"Did you find the bodies, Mr …?" he asked, keeping his voice light and friendly, his hand pulling out his notebook from his pocket almost automatically.

"Thomas. Edward Thomas," the man supplied. "I din't. Our Bernie, he did. He came down all faint and passed out, and when he came to, they were all gone. 'eaved up his breakfast, too," he added.

"So Bernie did see the men who did it, yes?" Sam began writing furiously. He always found that ideas manifested themselves better when he had all the facts written down neatly. Lists and diagrams, that was the ticket. Sometimes, at night, when he was _not_ having a nightmare, he was dreaming of Excel. He would never have expected to actually _miss_ Microsoft.

"Dunno," the man shrugged defiantly, but a panicked flicker in his eyes told Sam that he realised he had said too much. "Dun't think 'e did."

"If I wanna hear a fairytale, I ask the missus how much she spent on 'er new frock," Hunt interfered. "Yer just caused our Bernie a lot of trouble. Where is 'e?"

"Bernie never saw no-"

Hunt took another step closer. "Liar!" he hissed. "Bernie saw 'em blokes, and Bernie will tell us what 'e saw!"

"Mr. Thomas," Sam said in his best reasonable voice. "You've got to trust us. We want to help you - _and_ Bernie - and we will help you. But you've got to help us first. Tell us where we can find Bernie, and we will just ask him for an interview. He's a witness, not a suspect," he added and saw Chris nod. At least the lad remembered what he had taught him.

The man sagged. His mouth moved soundlessly, as though he was casting for words that wouldn't come. From the corner of his eyes, Sam saw Hunt's chest inflate, felt his DCI's anger emanate from him like heat from a furnace, and closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion he knew he couldn't prevent -

"He's in there."

Sam's eyes snapped open.

It had been the girl who spoke. And her voice was soft and clear; educated. Her eyes were shining with tears, but she looked Sam straight in the face.

"They took him in there. I think he's friends with the landlord." Her spine straightened and she lifted her chin up. A mute challenge.

"Ta, luv," Hunt gave her a curt nod, his gaze dropping to her chest for a split second, before turning away.

It took Sam a moment before he caught up. Hunt was looking grim, Ray was smirking, and Chris was … blushing? But then he saw the sign, and everything became clear.

"Napoleons," he said.

"Know it, d'yer, Boss?" Ray was smirking broader than ever, and Chris was watching Sam with an odd, half-scared, half-fascinated expression.

"Vince brought me here a couple of times. My cousin, Vince." The words were out before he could stop them. "We used to come here every Wednesday, for a few weeks. It was-" he broke off, aware that they were staring at him. He was doing it _again_.

"It din't open until last December, Boss," said Ray. "Yer been the first in line to get in, eh?"

"You know the exact date when they opened, DS Carling, do you?"

Ray glowered. Sam didn't wait for a comeback and turned to Hunt instead, who was already striding across the road towards the club.

"Tell me, why did you harass Mr Thomas? Did you have a reason? Maybe even evidence? Or did it just struck your fancy?" There was a small crowd gathered around the scene, people craning their heads to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside the warehouse, people watching uniform set up the barriers, people staring and pointing at the men from the CID. Many were looking at Napoleons, too, whispering among themselves, and there was something openly hostile about their expressions and postures.

"'e's got the key to the warehouse. 'e's the night watchman," Hunt said, carelessly. His face was unreadable.

"I think, Guv, 'e's more of an odd-job man," piped in Chris. He had pulled out his notebook and was leafing it through. "Does a bit of guarding, a bit of cleaning, a bit of looking after things, like."

"A bit of thieving, too," said Ray. "I know his type. Things go missing round the place, right? No-one cares enough to investigate. Turn up months later, in the hands of 'is missus and in-laws."

"I suppose you've got evidence for this accusation, DS Carling?"

Ray gave him an even stare. "Dun't need evidence to know what's going on, Boss. Know his type. Things always go missing round 'em."

"Quartermaster, like," Chris added. "Any road, he's just looking after himself and his family. No-one thinks the worse of him for that, right?"

"What made you want to interview him?"

Hunt stopped. "He's got the key!" He looked at Sam as though he was an idiot. "What do yer think, Sherlock?"

"Did he come forward to give his statement?"

Hunt snorted. "Him? That cowardly little sod?"

"No-one came forward to make a statement, Boss. That's why I had to inquire among folks for witnesses. Doing proper detective work, like."

"You didn't think he did it, then?"

"Him?" Hunt snorted. "Hasn't got it in 'im. Hasn't got the balls. Might've let 'em in, though. Might've worked with 'em."

"Well, I am glad you didn't just pick a random bloke from the crowd," Sam muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Knowing you," Sam said, loudly, lading his voice with as much sarcasm as he could muster, "you already know who did it."

"We're just going to arrest 'em."

"Yes, I gathered that much… Have you spoken to any of the suspects?"

"I thought I'll leave it to yer, Gladys." Behind his back, Sam could hear Ray snigger. He ignored it.

"So what happened to the golden rule? First one to speak did it? How does it apply when no-one actually spoke up?"

"Normal rules dun't apply with 'em poofters around, Boss."

~*~

Bernie turned out to be in his late twenties, and he looked tough and not like a man who'd faint at the sight of blood. Then again, it had been a messy scene, and Sam himself felt rather queasy when he thought of the pools of blood and the bits of flesh spattered all across the room. However, he knew that, for his CID colleagues, the fact that the man had passed out would be a source for undying mirth.

There was something vaguely familiar about Bernie. Wondering where he knew him from, Sam was almost inclined to put it down to his hallucinations, had not Bernie been such an incredibly, well, _realistic_ man. There was nothing about him that Sam thought would be worth putting into a hazy dream.

Hunt attacked Bernie straightaway, but the man stood his ground, defying Hunt in a way that made Sam grin inwardly. It was nice to see that the DCI had met his match when it came to insults.

If only he could remember where he'd seen the man before…

"Don't worry, Bernie. We aren't accusing you of anything." From the corner of his eyes, Sam saw Hunt's expression contradict his words openly, but he ignored it. Folding his hands on the tabletop, he leaned in, watching Bernie closely. "You are a witness, and you are making a statement. That is all. We need your full name, and you will have to tell us exactly what you saw. Then we will be able to catch the men who did it."

His entire posture expressing deepest disgust, Bernie turned to Hunt. "What's this wanker talking about?"

Hunt shrugged. "I stopped wondering long ago. Yer and me, Bernie, we know it's a lot of bullshit, dun't we?" He stood up so suddenly that his chair crashed to the floor and slammed his fist on the table. "Yer talk to us, sunshine, or I'll bang yer up for- What the hell, I dun't need a reason, I'll just bang yer up!"

Both men were staring at each other across the table, panting heavily. Bernie gave up first.

"Bernhard Thomas," he said. Sam gasped.

"Of course! You're Hazel's lodger!" The memory flooded back: he had called round his aunt Hazel's, and there was Bernie, crouching by an old Triumph, sweating and swearing, and Sam was sure that while he was talking to Hazel, Bernie was checking out his arse.

Bernie gave him the half incomprehensive, half worried look that Sam had grown accustomed to since he had landed in 1973.

"Er, right, Bernie, I'm DI Tyler. You can call me Sam."

"Hold yer horses, Tyler," said Hunt. "Yer too forward, Bernie here might think yer making a pass."

~*~

"Well, at least you didn't beat him up," said Sam as they were leaving the club and emerging into the broadly lit street. "I guess we can file that under 'progress'."

"Yer really do get off on the idea of filing, an't yer?"

Walking a few steps behind then, Ray inhaled audibly. "Fresh air!" he said, lighting up a cigarette. "Could no longer stand the stench in there. Perfume and Vaseline!"

"I din't think it were too bad, Ray," said Chris. "They were playing Elton John, too."

Ray pulled on his cigarette viciously. "Yer dun't know what yer saying, Chris."

Chris frowned and turned to Sam. "What now, Boss? Din't we go in to arrest 'em?"

"I didn't. Ask the Guv.

"Guv?" asked Chris. "An't yer gonna pull 'em in?"

"I think we're going to do some detective work on this one," said Hunt, looking pointedly at Sam. Sam raised his chin in defiance. "We're taking Bernie down to the station, where me and DI Tyler will interview 'im again to make 'im nervous, and then we'll release 'im and see whether 'e leads us to the haul."

Sam shook his head. "Bernie doesn't have anything to do with it, Guv. He didn't even see all that much. You heard him: he unlocked the front door, they took the back door-"

"Big surprise there!"

"I'm sorry, DS Carling, did you contribute something?"

"They would take the back door, woun't they?"

"Who is "they", in your opinion?"

Ray was unabashed. "Them poofters," he said. "They like back doors. Din't you know that, Boss?"

"Easy, ladies, easy," Hunt said, turning to Ray. "DI Tyler is not, as yet, convinced. But he'll soon see the light."

"Where's your evidence?" Sam was almost whining, and hating himself for it. "You've got no evidence whatsoever. Bernie couldn't give us a description of the men, and I think it's highly unlikely that the staff of Napoleons strolled over on a Saturday morning and robbed a warehouse around the corner. They're _open_ at night. They had _worked_ all Friday night. They would've been knackered."

"But, Boss, he did give us description," said Chris, consulting his notebook. Looking askance at it, Sam got a glimpse of a doodle on the margin; it looked vaguely like breasts, and Sam fleetingly hoped that their form was due to Chris' poor artistic talent rather than to experiences with misshaped anatomy.

"When did he do that?"

"'e said they were wearing tights over their head, din't 'e?"

"So?"

"Them people prance around in tights all the time!" Hunt was already standing by his car. "They'll know where to lay their hands on 'em!"

He opened the door and picked up the phone. "Alpha One!" he bellowed. "Alpha One, do yer hear me?"

"But so would you, wouldn't you, Guv?" Sam flatted his palms against the car roof and leaned in.

"What?"

"Know where to lay your hands on tights."

Gobsmacked, Hunt held the receiver in a lifeless hand. "Say what?"

"Tights. In your missus' chest-of-drawers?"

"What's the missus got to do with it?"

Sam sighed and gave up. "Nothing. Nothing. Just talking weird."

At least his reputation as a nutcase was coming in handy at times.

~*~

"Was it really necessary to close them down? You know as well as I do that none of the Napoleon staff had anything to do with it."

"Closing down will jog a few memories a treat. And what makes yer think I dun't suspect 'em?"

Sam grinned. "Come on, Guv. Gay boys handling heavy weaponry? How does that fit into your view of the world?"

Hunt swerved the steering wheel vigorously and the car turned the corner, tires screeching. "Hah! Think yer so clever, eh? But yer forgetting, Tyler, I used to know Stephen Warren, and he were a cocksucking bastard with a gun fetish, too. They come in all shapes and colours."

"Point taken." Sam pondered for a moment. "Look, I know you don't want to hear that and you will start insulting me, but I don't care. - You can't just close them down and keep them closed. Napoleons is… it's more than just a club-"

"Yeah, you're damn right. It's a place for blokes with unhealthy inclinations to hang out-"

"That's not what I meant. It's more than just a club, because it's the beginning of something. Something big. Something unique. And you're just quenching it in the bud."

"I dun't even want to know what you're going on about."

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again. It would be impossible to explain to 1973's Gene Hunt, who loved his town and was proud of it, that in 33 years time, Manchester would be famous for the Gay Village. Better not mention it, lest the mere concept should give Hunt a heart attack at the wheel.

He decided to change the subject.

"Maybe the vehicle will tell us more."

Hunt shrugged, unconvinced. "It's a dead end, but if it pleases yer to poke 'round, I woun't stand in yer way."

"Oh, come on, Guv! Bernie said he had heard the engine roar when they drove off and was positive he recognised the make, and he works in a garage. He knows what he's talking about. And Phyllis said the van was found this morning, abandoned and supposedly hidden. It's definitely a lead."

"If yer right - which I dun't think yer are - dun't forget who made Bernie spill the beans."

"I'm sure you'll get down in history for your efficient interview methods."

~*~

The black van stood on the run-down factory premises, half-hidden behind a pile of bricks and rubbish, an old mouldy canvas covering it partly. The factory building looked as though it would collapse any minute, and the scaffolding attached half-heartedly to one wall was a pathetic attempt at pretending that something was being done. Sam saw some uniform trudging slowly around the premises, peeking into dark corners. Vincent and some other CID guys who had arrived earlier, shot him accusing looks; he was sure they would rather have spent the Saturday morning having a late breakfast at the station and then an early drink at the pub, but there was a job to be done. It was his duty to tell them so.

"Right, team," he said, approaching them confidently and rubbing his hands, "the premises must be thoroughly searched. Who knows, maybe the suspects have hidden their haul here. The vehicle will also give us some clues. Forensics will be down here any minute."

"Nah, Boss, they wun't." Chris had appeared at his shoulder, chewing gum and grinning. "Forensics're all tight up, taking blood patterns at the scene o' crime, like you told 'em to, and then at Napoleons-"

"Who told them to go to Napoleons? I certainly didn't. We don't need them at Napoleons, we need them here!"

"I did," said Hunt. "It's our main suspects, and we're following _standards procedure_." He turned around and strode off, already shouting at uniform to get a move on.

Sam closed his eyes, counted slowly to ten, and then looked around, trying to take in as many details of his surroundings as possible. There was something vaguely familiar about this building, too, and he was getting tired of the feelings of déjà vu that would haunt him wherever he went. It was exhausting. He could barely tell anymore whether he had really seen a place or a face before, or whether he was just imaging it, because he had been conditioned to do so. At some point, he mused, he must run out of familiar things to meet. There were only so many aunts and uncles and cousins who could pop up, so many houses he used to live in which he could revisit.

But he had also learned to trust his instincts. This is why, instead of searching the van, he was walking slowly around the building, looking for a clue.

He found it at the front. The entrance looked different when he last saw it in almost 30 years time, but it was definitely the same door, the same building. He had come here only once, with Vince.

"Stuart," he said softly.

"DI Tyler?" He whirled around. Annie had just come around the corner. Apparently, she had followed him. "Sam? Are yer alright?"

He smiled. "Yeah. Fine. Just looking-"

"Yer were taking to yerself."

"I know this building." The moment the words had left his mouth, he saw in her eyes that this was what she had been dreading, but he ploughed on nevertheless. "This is where Stuart's flat will be. Stuart's a friend of my cousin Vince. He'll live here-"

"I'll better fetch DCI Hunt," she said, looking concerned. Sam winced. Ever since he had been forced to hunt down his own father and had pointed a gun at Hunt, Annie had seemed worried, almost as though she expected him to run amok any moment. When he thought about it objectively, he couldn't blame her. But he hated having forfeited her trust.

"Wait, Annie! I'm sorry. I know it sounds crazy - _again_ \- but it is true, I know it is. My cousin Vince's friend Stuart will live here, and I think I know-"

"Tyler! What yer think yer doin'?" Hunt was rounding the corner, looking as pissed off as Sam had ever seen him. "It were yer idea to search that bloody van, so get yer arse in gear and get down to it!"

Sam shook his head. "I think I've got a better idea now. We've got to search the building. And I think I know where to start."

Annie and Hunt exchanged an exasperated look, but followed Sam inside as he pushed open the door and slowly made his way upstairs. The staircase felt dead, like the inside of a tomb, the walls were clammy to the touch, the bricks almost crumbled under his fingers. He reached the top floor, Annie right behind him, Hunt panting, a dozen steps behind, and entered a spacious workshop, littered with broken machinery. It was hard to believe that in some not-so-distant future, this would become a stylish apartment of a trend-conscious gay bloke.

There was nothing there, but Sam's senses prickled, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Annie was looking around, too, as was Hunt; the latter one curling his lip in unmistakable contempt.

"Alright, wonder boy. Tell me why we're 'ere."

"I know this place. I know someone who lives- will live here. This will be turned into a flat, see, and-"

Hunt rolled his eyes. "Tyler. We've been there before. D'you really think that every single factory in this town will be turned into a flat in future? Where will people _work_?"

"The economic infrastructure will change- But never mind that now. Look, I know it's hard to believe, but I know that there's a connection. First Napoleons, and now this. Stuart, see, Stuart is ga-" he saw Hunt's expression and changed in mid-word, "Irish." After all, Hunt was likely to have an apoplectic fit if he threw in another gay man into the mix.

"IRA, eh?" Hunt said. "That explains the bloody mess. These bastards enjoy murdering just for the fun of it. But what do they want to steal tellies and radios for? Plotting murders and making bombs not enough to keep 'em occupied on a lonely night? Need some light entertainment?"

"Stuart's got nothing to do with the IRA. He's not particularly political, just likes to have a good time."

"Drinking Guinness and puking his guts out, eh?"

"Actually, that's not quite Stuart's idea of 'having a good time'." He ignored Hunt's sceptical grunt and turned to Annie. "Annie. You're good at this sort of thing. Tell me what you see. If you were on the run with stolen goods, where would you turn to?"

Annie shot Hunt a questioning glance, and as he nodded, she began, slowly, "Well, there are old machines, different types, I think, but mainly weaving looms… some rusty tools… the windows are partly boarded up where the panes been broken… no-one's come 'ere in a long time, there's dirt everywhere… a puddle, there, where it'd rained through, by the far wall… There's more dust and rubbish on that side," she pointed, "than on this. Maybe it keeps being washed away by the rain water…"

"Thank you, Miss Obvious, I dun't need a degree in psychology to see what's before me," said Hunt, and Annie fell silent.

"There is more dust and rubbish on that side…" repeated Sam, walking over to the other side of the room. "I wonder why…"

"It's too bloody dark in 'ere, we need the lads to bring up torches if we want to search the place properly." Hunt walked over to the window and began struggling to pull off the board. Eventually, he picked up a heavy wrench and began banging it against the wood. The board groaned and bent and then splintered and broke apart. Light poured in, illuminating the debris, the machines and conjuring up glittering patterns in the puddle by Hunt's feet. He looked down.

"Hmm…" he said.

"What?" asked Sam.

"There's oil in the water."

"Machine oil?"

"Maybe." Hunt stared down at his feet, and then leaned out of the window.

"Oy! Yer lot! Leave the van and come up 'ere! Bring up torches, and dun't forget yer guns!"

"Did you find anything, Guv?"

"There were a puddle of oil underneath the van," Hunt said. He and Sam looked at each other, and then back at the floor, scanning it more carefully, searching for any traces that would tell them someone's been there recently.

"There!" Sam pointed. "Footprints. Faint, but unmistakable."

Hunt crouched down, touched the spot where dust had mingled with the oil and was glittering, moist, in the sunlight.

"But where do they lead to? To the wall? Dun't make any sense." Annie had followed the track and was now standing in front of the brick wall. Hunt joined her and banged his fist against it experimentally.

"Solid enough."

"Wait a moment," Sam said slowly as memories blossomed in the back of his mind. "The flat was bigger. I think that Stuart's bedroom must have been about-" he looked around, his eyes narrowed, "there…"

He crossed over with Hunt in tow. The DCI had slung the wrench over his shoulder, holding it lovingly, as though he couldn't part with it. Sam stopped in front of another part of the brick wall and flattened his palm against it. "I think…" he said, weighing his words carefully, "there's something wrong about this…"

"Wrong, yer say, eh? Well, we'll set it right soon enough." Hunt got a good grip on the wrench and in the next moment was slamming it viciously against the wall. It didn't budge, but-

"Stop!" Sam raised a hand, listening hard. "Try again here!"

Now they all heard it: a hollow sound. Hunt gave the wall a few more bashes, but it still stood its ground. He grunted, annoyed, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve.

"We've got to wait till the others arrive and then send out for some proper tools-" Sam began, but Hunt cut him short.

"It's a workshop. There's tools in 'ere." He rummaged around and in a moment had pulled out a large sledgehammer from a pile of rubbish. "Now, that's more like it!"

When Chris and Ray came through the door, they stopped dead at the sight of their DCI in his shirtsleeves hitting furiously at a crumbling brick wall.

"Blimey!" said Chris. "They should pay the Guv for demolishing them old buildings which they want to get rid of."

"Don't be stupid, Chris." Sam picked up the fragment of a brick and held it up into the light. "Fresh mortar, see? The wall had only just been erected. After 6.30 a.m., I guess."

"Why 6.30?" asked Ray.

"Time of the robbery," Hunt panted, sweat pouring down his face. Sam thought vaguely that they should offer to help him, but Hunt was evidently enjoying himself very much.

"Weird, though," said Sam, struck by a sudden thought.

"What is?"

"The time. 6.30 is a weird time for robbing a warehouse. Much better doing it at night, not in the morning when people're going to work and streets are getting busy."

"The stuff they stole were only just delivered at night and were gettin' picked up today. They only had a couple of hours for the job," said Ray, watching Hunt's efforts dispassionately.

"That means they must have been watching the warehouse…" There was something they were missing, Sam knew, and he was probing his mind, trying to poke the vague thought into being. Hunt stopped banging, tossed the hammer to the floor and straightened up, wiping his face.

"Aladdin's cave!" he said triumphantly. "Trust the Gene Genie to find the way in."

The space behind the brick wall was larger than Sam had expected. And fuller. It was jam-packed with not only television and radio sets, but also car parts, and various boxes and containers.

"Right!" Hunt was rubbing his hands and grinning a wolfish grin. "Get uniform up here to carry the stuff down, send word to the station to tell the rightful owners that the CID had recovered their stolen goods, and have forensics match the prints and whatnots with those of the suspects."

"Who are the suspects, Guv?" Sam asked. "You don't still think Napoleons got anything to do with this?"

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't make any sense."

"Makes just as much sense as anything else. We dun't have any other suspects, and can just as well bang up that lot."

"Keeping the streets clean," said Ray, and Chris sniggered.

"No. We are missing something here. There is something about the time the robbery happened that is odd, and we've got to find out-"

"The queers dance and frolic all night, get pissed, decide a telly is the one thing they need for perfect bliss-"

"But that's just it. Look at all this." He pointed to the piles of goods. "That wasn't a one-off. This is organised. Now, why would Napoleons risk its existence to organise large-scale robberies?"

"A club's a perfect cover-"

"Not a gay club, it isn't." Sam shook his head. "No-one in 1973's Manchester trusts a gay club."

"Yer sure as hell are dead set on protecting 'em queers!" Hunt had stepped forward, towering over Sam.

"You sure as hell are dead set on inspecting them thoroughly. Just can't leave them alone, can you?"

Hunt grabbed Sam in one sudden movement and pushed him hard against the wall. Sam rammed a fist into Hunt's stomach and was readying himself for pain, when Annie called out.

"Wait!"

They both stopped.

"What if - DI Tyler said the time dun't make any sense, cos they shud've done it earlier - what if they coudn't… Cos they had summit else to do first?"

"Like what?" Hunt grunted, still hostile, but let go of Sam nevertheless.

"Like, I dunno." She looked imploringly at Sam, who was frowning.

"What professions are there that got to work in the small hours of the morning?" Sam asked slowly, his thoughts whirling madly.

"Er… night watchmen… the newspaper people… bakers…"

"Candlestick makers," said Hunt caustically.

"…postmen… lorry drivers…"

Sam and Hunt exchanged a look, struck by the same idea.

"Drivers!" said Hunt. "They'd know the exact time when-"

"…but they'd have to return the truck first, because they can't use the company's vehicles for transport of stolen goods! They use a different one!" He turned to Chris. "Do we have the statements of the lorry drivers who delivered the stuff to the warehouse? I need their names."

Hunt was already through the door. "Yer coming, Tyler?"

"…And we need back-up at Crawley & Son forwarding agency!" Sam shouted, running after his DCI.

~*~

"Well, that were fun," said Hunt, later, as he was downing his third or fourth pint of bitter in the pub.

"'Fun', Guv? I hardly think there was anything 'fun' about it."

"Oh, but there were. It were fun to watch Ray beat that bloke to a pulp who were about to kill yer with 'is bare hands. And it were even more fun to make yer and Ray shake hands like civilised people afterwards."

"Yeah, right, you'd be the expert on civilised behaviour, right, Guv?" Sam pressed the improvised ice pack to his swollen eye. The bleeding had stopped, but he was sure his eyebrow needed stitching. Hunt reached out, and Sam pushed his hand away without thinking, but the hand came back and Hunt said, quite gentle, "Dun't worry. It's just a scratch. Yer been worse."

"And thanks to you, as well." But his voice didn't sound half bitter, and Gene merely laughed.

"Hah! Yeah, I din't make it easy for yer. Been like a father to yer, eh?"

Sam shook his head disbelievingly. "What?!"

"'Spare the rod and spoil the child'. It's in the Bible, Sam." And, turning to the bar, he called, "Oy, Nelson! Another double whisky for me DI 'ere!"

He slid off his stool, shot Sam a broad grin and strolled over to the drinking, yowling crowd around Ray, who was retelling the thrilling tale of him saving the DI's life for the third time, with no end in sight.

Sam groaned and rubbed his face with both hands, wincing as his hand made contact with the sore flesh around his eye. Nelson placed a glass filled with rich amber liquid in front of him. Sam took a sip, and another, and then emptied the glass in one gulp.

"Yer did a good job there, Sam. Everyone says so."

"Maybe I did, but. - What was that all about, Nelson? Why do I keep running across people I've known in the future? It's got to make sense, there's got to be a purpose in what I'm doing! But saving a gay bar from being closed can hardly be it, can it?"

"Oh, I dun't know, mon brave. It seems to me that saving a bar from being closed is an 'onourable purpose right enough." Nelson took Sam's empty glass away, replaced it with a full one, and gave Sam a wink. "On the house. On behalf of all the bartenders in the world, Sam."

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. It's probably more fun if you're familiar with the TV show _Queer as Folk, UK_.  
>  2\. Napoleons, the oldest club in the Gay Village, actually opened in December 1972.


End file.
